You are the prayer on the lips of a sermon blocked by bonnets and the vote for a man who kisses babies instead of making plans. I read about you every day in that rich man's paper, the one who's wife ran her clean white nails across your face, with a temporary frown on hers. A philanthropist feeds you with the hands of an employee he's never met, and is fed by those who can mold words into a lumpy staple of 'inspiration' for him to regurgitate with his teeth clenched shut.Your eyes are brown. Your hair is tousled. You birth date is 8 /9/90. Not that it matters- for all we know, those numbers are some more to be added to a sum of tragedies, just another day the country takes a collective sigh of weariness, just the number of shovel-fulls of soil that were dispersed over a mass grave we have to dig for you.